


sink not into oblivion, but a hot bath

by starciti



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bath Houses, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Romantic Fluff, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, the geraskier bath scene that we all deserved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starciti/pseuds/starciti
Summary: “A bath’s a bath. Just go.”Oh, but Jaskier isn’t finished. “Lord knows you’re going to make me wash your hair, too, and —”Jaskier’s tirade is cut short when Geralt grabs him firmly by the hem of his trousers. For a brief, wondrous moment, Jaskier wonders if his dear witcher is truly so promiscuous — but then he’s being yanked harshly into the doorway, and he stumbles into the bath stall with a startled yelp.“Get in the fucking bath, Jaskier.”Traveling side by side with a witcher takes a lot out of you and, more unfortunately, puts a lot of smells on you. While Jaskier is thrilled to finally wash off the stench of heroics and heartbreak (and monster blood), he can't say he was expecting to share a bathtub with his companion. Not that heminds,lord no — he just wishes his lovely witcher was a little more willing to display any outward signs of genuine emotional connection.Yes, loving the White Wolf of Rivia is certainly a challenge — but Jaskier has never been one to give in so easily.Mindless, self-indulgent romance and fluff. Partly a relationship study and an exploration in love languages, but mostly me wanting to write some good gay content.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 388





	sink not into oblivion, but a hot bath

**Author's Note:**

> the first thing i post to ao3 in two years, and it's something i wrote in a week and a half. these two dumbasses really have taken over my life, and i am not sorry for it! this was originally supposed to be one small scene in a larger kissfic (like the one i did for iwaoi) but, well... i guess i got carried away. （x_x；）  
> i think there are a lot of different ways to interpret a romantic relationship between geralt and jaskier, in terms of how they show affection, and this is sort of an exploration into that. the two of them show their love in wildly different ways — and maybe they're both a little stupid sometimes, but at least they know they love each other.  
> also, this gets a little spicy in the kissing department, but there's nothing more than geralt being a teasing asshole. no one call the police on me.

They’ve finally saved up enough gold to afford an inn with a bathhouse, and Jaskier is _ecstatic._

Elated. Thrilled. Absolutely off his rocker. He doesn’t know if there’s an adjective in the world that could describe how badly he wants to stop smelling like… well. Whatever it is he smells like. At this point, he’s not sure he really wants to know.

Being a travelling bard leaves you feeling a bit ripe, that much he can’t deny — but being the bard of a _witcher,_ of all people? Well, at the very least, Jaskier can say it’s never been boring. At most, though, he can say it’s downright disgusting.

It’s a sentiment he makes far too clear to Geralt, more often than not. He’s always halfway to begging for them to stop somewhere with a bathhouse, or at least jump in a damn river, for all he cares — anything to rid themselves of the smell of heroics and heartbreak.

(And selkiemore guts, among other things. But, he digresses.)

Jaskier swears it’s been months since they’ve had a proper bath. Really, it’s probably only been a few weeks, but he’s found that the trials and tribulations of witchering make the need for bathing exponentially more severe. And, all things considered, today they’ve hardly taken it a step up. From the peek Jaskier took at the bathhouse while Geralt was busy tacking up Roach for the night, he can’t imagine there being space for more than five bath stalls or so.

But he’ll bite his tongue, just this once. He really was starting to consider jumping in a river.

Jaskier hardly lets them settle their belongings in their room before he sets off towards the bathhouse. Geralt follows suit, of course, though clearly not as excited. Jaskier isn’t sure why — the closer he gets to the prospect of not smelling like this, the more he feels like he’s truly over the moon.

Jaskier is pulling his shirt over his head before they’ve even reached the door. Faintly from behind him, he hears Geralt snort.

“Eager, I see.”

“Oh, my dear witcher, you couldn’t possibly imagine,” Jaskier sighs wistfully, folding his shirt over his arm. “while I know you’d happily go unbathed for the rest of your days, some of us don’t like smelling like — well, I don’t even _know_ what, and that’s what scares me.”

Geralt pushes open the door to the bathhouse, and Jaskier steps inside. 

“Heroics and heartbreak?” Geralt muses. Jaskier scowls.

“At this point, if I only smell like onion, I have the goddess to thank.”

The bathhouse air is warm and humid with the steam from the baths. Jaskier, who’s already toeing out of his boots, swears he can feel himself teeming with excitement. 

“I swear, I’m going to spend the next century in that tub,” says Jaskier, gathering his boots from off the ground. “I finally get to bathe without worrying about fussing over your hair.”

Geralt scowls. “I can wash my own hair.”

Jaskier snorts. “Tell that to all the hours I’ve spent untangling those snow white locks because _someone_ can’t be bothered to brush it. Well, not tonight, mister. No, sir! Jaskier the handmaiden is off duty.”

With a huff, Jaskier turns his back to his companion and moves to unlock the bath stall, leaving Geralt to his own devices. The innkeep said he’d leave the key by the door to the bath, and — 

“Oh.”

Geralt quirks a brow. “What?”

Jaskier quickly snatches the key from its hook, turning it over in his hands. Yes, this certainly is _one_ key — for _one_ bath. He glances briefly around him, but sure enough, that’s the only key in sight.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinks, turning to face Geralt, the key still dangling from his fingers.

“Well, it’s — oh, it’s trivial, really, but —” he clears his throat. “I think the innkeep may have made a bit of an oversight. Or, well, an assumption, maybe?”

Geralt raises his brows; Jaskier huffs.

“He’s only given us the key to one bath.”

“And?”

Jaskier looks at him incredulously.

“ _And?_ You don’t see anything wrong with that? Not at all? Not even a teeny bit?” he asks. Geralt still looks blissfully oblivious, and Jaskier runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, good lord, the first time I get to take a bath in weeks, and I don’t even get to relish in it. Am I cursed, Geralt? I’ve got to be cursed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, stepping forward and snatching the key from Jaskier’s hands.

“Don’t be dramatic. We’ve bathed together before.”

Jaskier glares at him, pointing an accusatory toe of his boot in his direction. “No, I’ve bathed _you,_ and that’s very different from trying to fit both of us in there at once and wash ourselves at the same time. That might be downright impossible.”

Geralt slips the key inside and unlocks the door, pushing it open with his knee. Sure enough, the bath inside looks hardly the size for two people; but hardly is better than not at all.

“It’s big enough.”

“No, it’s _not,_ ” Jaskier continues. “because I know neither of us is going to let the other go first, which means that I’m going to have to find a way to fit myself around your stupidly muscular witcher body. I’ll also have to get this wretched smell out of the both of us, even though I’m sure you’ll get tired of it after maybe five minutes, and I won’t even get to enjoy the hot water.”

Geralt feels his eye twitch. 

“A bath’s a bath. Just go.”

Oh, but Jaskier isn’t finished. “Lord knows you’re going to make me wash your hair, too, and —”

Jaskier’s tirade is cut short when Geralt grabs him firmly by the hem of his trousers. For a brief, wondrous moment, Jaskier wonders if his dear witcher is truly so promiscuous — but then he’s being yanked harshly into the doorway, and he stumbles into the bath stall with a startled yelp.

“Get in the fucking bath, Jaskier.”

* * *

They do, in fact, both fit inside the bathtub, though Jaskier finds a way to complain the entire time they’re trying to. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

They end up sitting with their backs pressed together — which, as much as Jaskier has complained about not having enough space, is rather enjoyable. Geralt’s back is warm against his skin, and the water is even warmer, just hot enough to burn in the kind of way that hits the sweet spot. 

Jaskier lets out a long, contented sigh, letting his head fall back against Geralt’s. He feels the witcher stiffen, and he can’t help his lips from tugging into a coy grin.

“Hello,” he says. Geralt doesn’t need to turn to see the smile on the bard’s face; the way he greets him alone is enough.

“Hmm.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jaskier tries. He tilts his head back until it’s resting gently against Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher, unfortunately, still won’t give him the time of day. “come here often?”

Geralt does, finally, open one eye to peer down at Jaskier — and he’s briefly excited before he sees the ever so subtle teasing glint in that familiar amber gaze.

“Only when I’m accompanied by someone who smells worse than I do.”

Jaskier sits straight up, looking absolutely scandalized as he gives a nice, harsh nudge to the shoulder he had just rested his head upon. Geralt, of course, looks all too pleased with himself, and Jaskier once again finds himself in a moral conundrum. On the one hand, he does love to see that hint of a smile pull at his dear witcher’s lips, but at his own expense? Well, he’s not too sure if that’s worth it.

“Unbelievable. Completely and utterly astonishing!” he cries. “I sing my poor little heart out trying to scrounge up some more coin so we can sleep somewhere nicer than a barn, and what do I get for my troubles? Abso-bloody-lutely nothing!”

Geralt rolls his neck, eyes closed once more, and says simply; “I would have preferred the barn.”

“He would have preferred the barn, he says,” scoffs Jaskier. “well, if you’re that ungrateful, maybe you should just go spend the night in that dank old stable outside with Roach.”

Geralt looks for a moment like he’s actually considering it. Jaskier scowls.

“Oh, don’t you dare.”

And so Jaskier lets out a long, dramatic sigh, letting the back of his head drop once again to Geralt’s shoulder. He turns his gaze so that it meets the side of Geralt’s visage — stone-faced as always, and yet, somehow more relaxed than Jaskier has seen him in a long while. Eyes gently closed, lips in a firm line, dripping white hair falling every which way — not to mention the way the candlelight keeps catching every harsh line of his face… Yes, the White Wolf of Rivia is certainly a handsome devil.

 _And,_ thinks Jaskier, lips pulling into a coy smile. _he’s all mine._

He lets one of his hands come up to gently card his fingers through Geralt’s droves of white hair. It’s blissful for the both of them for about two seconds before Jaskier’s touch gets caught on a mess of tangles. Geralt stiffens at the accidental tug on his hair at the same time Jaskier clicks his tongue.

“And when,” he begins. “was the last time you brushed your hair?”

“The last time _you_ brushed it,” says Geralt. Jaskier sighs.

“May the goddess give me strength. You really are going to be the death of me one of these days, do you know that?” And when Geralt says nothing, “all right, go on, get yourself ready. Not a single one of us is leaving this bath until your hair’s as silky smooth as a baby’s arse.”

“Not a comparison I needed,” says Geralt.

Jaskier elects, as he usually does, to ignore him, instead leaning forward onto his knees and peering over the edge of the tub. For what they paid, the bathhouse is surprisingly well-stocked with shampoo, conditioner, soap, and so on. Heaven only knows what they smell like, but they surely smell better than the two of them, so Jaskier is undoubtedly excited.

He sets aside his excitement for the time being, though, and instead reaches out of the bath to snatch up the wide-tooth comb reserved solely for Geralt’s snowy locks. Jaskier had learned the hard way that the witcher lacked the patience for anything finer — he was simply incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes, dear lord — so Jaskier had scoured the markets for _something_ that could ease the tangles of the White Wolf’s fur. He had found this comb in Oxenfurt, sitting idly within a market stall — and within a moment of laying eyes upon the rugged sandlewood with edges still harsh, he knew he had found a winner.

Ah, but he digresses. The lengths he goes to for love.

Though it takes a bit of effort, Jaskier manages to shift around until he’s kneeling in the bath and face to face with Geralt’s mess of snow white hair. He knows better than to jump right into the tangles — better to approach a sleeping wolf with caution, lest you risk getting bit. With nimble fingers, Jaskier pulls apart a section of Geralt’s hair and lays it flat against his palm, before gently taking the comb to it to try and brush out the tangles. It’s a tedious balance, he’s found — trying to brush out Geralt’s hair without pulling it so much that the witcher hounds him until he gives up is not a simple task. 

But the way Geralt’s shoulders relax under his touch, and his lashes flutter closed, and the room is filled with nothing but the idle sound of the comb through his hair? Yes, Jaskier thinks that almost makes it all worth it.

The comb catches on a tangle, and Jaskier comes face to face with a knot the size of his fist. He grimaces.

 _Almost,_ he thinks.

“Honestly, some days I surprise myself,” Jaskier sighs. “surely I must have the patience of a saint, to deal with this.”

Geralt looks irritatingly unbothered.

“No one asked you to.”

Jaskier nudges his shoulder with the end of the comb. “Everything good and holy in this world asked me to, Geralt. If I’d left your hair the tangled rat’s nest it was, I surely wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. For a night, anyway.”

Geralt snorts. “That’s on your conscience, not mine.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, huffing out a dramatic sigh.

“Oh, the things I do for love.”

Geralt goes silent, shoulders tensing ever so slightly at the notion of _love._ It’s a reaction Jaskier is all too familiar with, and one he’s constantly grappling over how to handle. Loving Geralt of Rivia is a double-edged sword, he’s found. On the one edge, Jaskier is struck by a pleasing warmth in his stomach to know how even the simplest of affections reach Geralt’s heart — but on the other side, he can’t help but feel guilty that it’s taken destiny this long to provide Geralt with someone who truly cares for him.

Jaskier thinks back, briefly, to a moment not unlike this one. Although years ago, he can see clearly the outline of Geralt soaking by his lonesome in the tub, chin held high and eyes tightly narrowed, firmly insisting that never in his life does he wish to need anyone or have others need him.

 _And yet,_ thinks Jaskier, lips pulling into a fond smile. _here we are._

Geralt’s eyes flick back towards him briefly; he sees the smile on Jaskier’s face and promptly narrows his gaze.

“What’s that look for?”

Jaskier merely grins wider, briefly swooping down to give Geralt’s frowning face a quick, chaste kiss.

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over,” he says, flourishing it with a wink. Geralt rolls his eyes, and so Jaskier brings his attention back to the task at hand.

By the time he’s untangled half of it, Jaskier allows himself to stop and run his fingers through Geralt’s long locks of hair. It’s still in dire need of a shampooing, and maybe a conditioning, if Jaskier’s lucky. And yet, even in its unwashed glory, it still is rather pretty. Jaskier sighs.

“Your hair truly is quite lovely, Geralt. If you’d ever let me brush it, maybe it’d be this soft more than twice a year.” 

Geralt _hmms._ “Twice is enough.”

Once again, Jaskier ignores him. “And the _length,_ good lord. I’ve not met many men that are willing to grow their hair out like this. It’s always the little things about you that set my heart aflame.”

Jaskier doesn’t see the roll of Geralt’s eyes, but he can assume it’s there.

“If you like it so much, just grow yours.”

Jaskier looks at him incredulously.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly!” he exclaims. “could you even imagine it? Me, with hair to my shoulders? I already get mistaken for a beautiful woman a little too often. Is that what you want, Geralt? Even more men fawning over your lovely little bard?”

Geralt looks back at him now, amber eyes narrowed.

“You mean trying to kill him for sleeping with their wives?” he accuses. Jaskier bonks his forehead with the comb.

“Watch it, you.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, Jaskier returning his focus to brushing through Geralt’s mess of hair. He really isn’t sure how long it’s been since they’ve done this, and he makes a mental note to bully Geralt into letting him sit down and brush it at least once a week. He finds it to be quite relaxing, though he’s loathe to admit it — and by the time he sets the comb down and flips Geralt’s hair over his shoulders, he feels a familiar sense of pride bubble up in his chest.

“There we are. No more tangles!” he proclaims. He cards his fingers from Geralt’s forehead to the tips of his hair, and hums proudly. “see, isn’t that a miracle? I can run my hands through your hair without getting bound by my wrists!”

Geralt, of course, seems horribly unimpressed. He idly brings up a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, but grimaces at the feeling of it.

“You said you’d wash it,” he says. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, princess, we’re getting there. Would you like me to rub your bottom with chamomile, while we’re at it?”

Geralt elbows him harshly in the stomach.

“Piss off.”

“Yes, dear.”

The shampoo, much to Jaskier’s delight, _does_ smell better than the two of them. It’s not very expensive, he’s sure, but the handful of it he gets smells faintly of lavender, which he’s sure Geralt will hate. All the better — the more Geralt hates it, the more Jaskier is pleased by it. The duality of man, or something like that.

Geralt does, in fact, grunt in disapproval when Jaskier’s hands come close enough that he can smell the lavender in the shampoo. His discomfort falls short, though, when Jaskier’s fingers start their gentle massaging of his scalp. Yes, the bard is all too familiar with this back-and-forth — merely a few seconds of fingernails against his scalp, and so the witcher crumbles. His head relaxes against the pressure of Jaskier’s hands, and his shoulders go lax — he’s relaxed, even if he won’t admit it.

And seeing his witcher like this, coming undone underneath his fingers? Well, Jaskier could write quite a few ballads about this.

(He won’t, though. People may be willing to toss a coin to their witcher, but they might be less inclined to wash the blood from his hair.)

Even so, Jaskier is too enamored by his love to stay silent. Briefly, he leans down and presses a kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, smiling against his skin.

“You really are beautiful, Geralt.” 

Geralt opens an eye at him, looking dreadfully unimpressed. Jaskier frowns.

“What? Surely you’ve heard that from someone other than myself.”

“I’ve found that the more scars you’re covered in,” Geralt says. “the less inclined people are to think of beauty.”

To that, Jaskier falls silent, eyes wandering to the myriad of scars stretching across Geralt’s skin. His back is almost a canvas for them, ever expanding — old marks of heroism and glory fading only to be replaced by newer ones, each gnarlier than the last. Jaskier’s eyes are no stranger to them, but he seems to have gawked for a bit too long, for Geralt heaves a heavy sigh.

“Go on. Ask about them,” he says. He sounds so very tired, and it tugs harshly at Jaskier’s heartstrings. “everybody does.”

But Jaskier huffs, determined not to let his heart get the better of him. Not now, when the subject is so tender, the scars in question so fresh.

“Bold of you to assume I wasn’t there to see the very heroics that caused some of these,” he says. Geralt huffs right back.

“Bold of you to assume it wasn’t your fault.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, saying nothing more as he continues working the shampoo through Geralt’s hair. The silence hangs heavy between them, though, an uncomfortable weight atop both their chests. Jaskier swallows thickly and speaks, low and soft.

“Do you dislike them?” he tries. Geralt shrugs.

“I couldn’t care less about the scars. Wish other people cared less, too.”

“Why? They’re intrigued, aren’t they?”

Geralt sighs through gritted teeth, frustration permeating the very air between them.

“They only ask because they pity me, Jaskier,” he says. “either that or they think me some sort of monstrous warrior. I don’t need that. I don’t give a damn what my body looks like, or what other people think of it. They’re not trophies, and they’re not a show of weakness. They’re just scars.”

Jaskier hums. “What are scars a show of, then?”

Geralt looks back at him, and for a moment, lets the hollowness of his eyes say nothing and everything all at once. And then, in a horribly characteristic deadpan:

“That I got fucking stabbed.”

Jaskier snorts, and Geralt turns back around, seemingly quite intent on not saying anything more on the subject. Jaskier lets them sit in silence for as long as it takes to massage the shampoo against Geralt’s scalp, but eventually, he knows he has to say _something._

“I like them,” he starts. He can practically _feel_ Geralt scowling, and he rolls his eyes. “yes, yes, I know you don’t like hearing about them, so I’ll keep it as short and sweet as my heart can manage. But I really do like them, Geralt. Seeing them, running my hands over them… look at me, going on ten years by your side, and I still don’t know how you got some of these. You’re ever a mystery, dear.”

Geralt says nothing, but it isn’t as if Jaskier expects anything different. As he moves to rinse the soap out of the witcher’s hair, he continues on, voice low and smooth.

“I know you’d give me a right and proper lashing for prattling on about _destiny,_ of all things,” he says. “but if you ask me? All of these little marks show every time you’ve cheated that bitch we call fate. Every time the world has threatened to take the White Wolf away, and he didn’t give in. They’re inspiring, I think.”

Just as Geralt opens his mouth to retort, Jaskier scoops up a handful of the bath water and promptly splashes it over his head, for good measure. Geralt glares back at him through an intense amber gaze, but with his sopping wet hair going every which way, he looks no more threatening than a wolf pup caught in the rain.

“Short and sweet,” grumbles Geralt. “and then he writes me a fucking ballad.”

Jaskier laughs, flipping a lock of Geralt’s now clean hair over his face.

“Only for you, my love.”

Geralt runs a hand roughly through his hair to pull it away from his face before grabbing the edges of the bath and hoisting himself up. For a brief, underwhelming moment, Jaskier wonders if their fun has come to an end — until Geralt snatches up the half empty jar of lavender shampoo. Jaskier cocks a brow.

“What a surprise,” he muses. “an eye for an eye, I presume?”

Geralt looks at him in the kind of way that makes Jaskier think he’s about to be insulted, but he says simply, “This is your bath, too.”

And Jaskier laughs. “Oh, how you spoil me, darling! All right, give me a moment. I’ll surely not look this gift horse in the mouth.”

Jaskier turns until he has his back to his companion. For a moment, he’s sorely disappointed in the fact that he can no longer see Geralt’s lovely face — but then he feels the cool sensation of shampoo on his scalp, and the warmth of Geralt’s fingers in his hair, and suddenly there is nothing in Jaskier’s head but bliss.

The witcher’s touch is gentle, as he massages the shampoo into Jaskier’s short locks of dusty brown hair. Jaskier is briefly upset that he _doesn’t_ have hair to his shoulders, because if he did, then he’d get to feel this for a little longer. He lets out a sigh, long, happy and content.

“I do believe you’ve found your calling, Geralt,” he muses. “never mind witchering — have you ever considered becoming a hairdresser?”

Geralt grunts, but the hands in Jaskier’s hair remain gentle. 

“Keep talking like that, and your mouth is the next thing I wash out.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Ooh, too true. Hairdressers do have to be sociable. Stick with the witchering, then.”

Regrettably, it takes Geralt hardly a few minutes to wash and rinse out Jaskier’s hair — and while Jaskier is happy to be clean, he does miss the feeling of his stupidly strong companion’s hands being so kind with him. Geralt reaches over the edge of the tub again, and Jaskier is sure this time their evening has come to an end — which is why he’s so surprised to see Geralt pop off the top to the jar of body wash that had remained untouched.

“Do I owe you money or something, Geralt?” Jaskier asks. “or have you just gone soft? You’re spoiling me to death tonight.”

Geralt shakes some of the liquid soap into his hands, not even bothering to glance up.

“I already told you that you smelled worse than me.”

Jaskier sighs.

“Ah, there he is.”

Half-hearted insults or not, Jaskier is certainly not going to complain. He leans forward onto his knees and lets his arms hang idly off the edge of the tub, resting his cheek against his forearm. After a moment, Geralt’s hands return — and Jaskier is pleasantly surprised to feel them massaging the body wash into the warm skin of his back. 

The soap smells distinctly of lemon and mint, cool against his skin. Geralt’s hands are rough and calloused with time, but they work the soap into the muscles of his back with such care that Jaskier swears he must be in heaven. He shudders distinctly, mind foggy with content.

“Hands he says know nothing but monster-slaying,” he murmurs. “and yet, how gentle they are with me. I must be something special, hmm?”

Geralt presses a palm firmly against Jaskier’s shoulder blades. “Especially irritating.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Jaskier is sure he could spend an eternity here, with the warmth of the bath at his hips and his lover’s hands gliding across his skin. But it’s not in the nature of a bard to stay silent, and it’s certainly not in his character, either. With his cheek still resting against his forearm, Jaskier lets his lips part — his voice follows suit in a low, silky smooth murmur of a song.

“ _The very thought of you, and I forget to do,  
The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do…_”

Geralt’s touch halts for a moment, and Jaskier wonders if he’s finally caught his witcher off guard. But then he feels the cool sensation of water rushing down his back, and he knows Geralt had just paused to rinse the soap off. Damn. He’ll get him next time.

“ _I’m living in a kind of daydream,  
I’m happy as a king!  
And foolish though it may seem…_”

Jaskier cranes his head backwards, cornflower blues meeting amber yellows. Geralt’s face is firm, but his eyes are alight with something even Jaskier can’t quite place. It makes a smile, fond and longing, pull at his lips.

“ _To me, that’s everything._ ”

Jaskier turns back around, letting his eyes flutter shut.

“ _The mere idea of you, the longing here for you,  
You never know how slow the moments go ‘till I’m near to you.  
I see your face in every flower,  
Your eyes in stars above!  
It’s just the thought of you,  
The very thought of you…_” 

Ever so slowly, Jaskier reaches an arm backwards until it’s looped around Geralt’s neck. As he turns back around, he pulls the witcher closer, until they’re properly facing each other for the first time all night. Geralt’s hands come to rest firmly against his hips, and Jaskier smiles, letting his final lyrics loose as a warm breath between them.

“ _My love._ ”

And finally, _finally,_ Geralt leans down and kisses him.

Jaskier shudders out a sigh against the witcher’s lips, looping both of his arms around his neck and tilting up his chin so he can properly kiss him silly. Geralt kisses with a fire that Jaskier, even in his promiscuous glory, has never quite been able to match — by the time they pull apart, Jaskier has to take a shallow gasp for air. And yet, he smiles at him all the same.

“My beautiful, daring witcher,” whispers Jaskier. “oh, how I love you so.”

Geralt says nothing, merely pressing their brows together as his lips part with a low, warm exhale. Jaskier shudders again, bringing the back of his hand up to coast his knuckles against Geralt’s cheek, drinking in the romance of it all.

"They say, you know," he murmurs, his voice a warm breath upon Geralt's lips. "that witchers haven't got any emotions."

Geralt narrows his eyes; when he speaks next, his voice is firm. 

"They don't." There’s an undeniable finality to his response, yet Jaskier does nothing but move ever closer, smiling all the while.

"Stone-cold. Heartless, even. Nary a thought in their heads but monsters and coins."

"What else could they need?"

Jaskier's lips pull into a coy, hungry grin. Geralt looks like he has to stiffen his lower lip to keep himself from kissing the look right off his face.

"I bet I could think of something," he whispers.

He tries to lean up and kiss Geralt again, but the witcher turns his head firmly to the side.

“The water’s getting cold,” he says. Jaskier huffs.

“Oh, come off it, Geralt! You never let me do this. Indulge your dear bard for longer than one measly kiss, won’t you?”

And Geralt turns his head back — but instead of kissing him, the motherfucker leans down against Jaskier’s neck and _bites._

A strangled gasp wrenches forth from Jaskier’s lips, and his fingers tangle in the back of Geralt’s hair. Geralt lets out a hot breath against the skin of Jaskier’s neck.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he murmurs. “I just told you to get out of the bath.”

Jaskier gawks at him, eyes open wide and mouth agape. And then Geralt, the cocky bastard, leans forward and takes Jaskier's lower lip between his teeth. Another gasp catches in Jaskier’s throat, and just as he moves to kiss back with the heat of the flames burning in the coils of his stomach, Geralt pulls his lips back. Jaskier just about _whines_ at the lack of contact, but then Geralt’s lips are trailing kisses down his neck, and he is putty in the witcher’s hands.

"You wouldn't deny a humble request," murmurs Geralt, voice husky and low. "would you, bard?"

And when Geralt talks like _that,_ all warm and demanding against his skin? Well, Jaskier doesn't think he has it in him to do anything but comply.

* * *

Geralt of Rivia sleeps with his shirt off, which is probably Jaskier's favorite discovery of the past decade by far.

Which could be, perhaps, partially Jaskier’s fault, as he’s spent the better part of that decade snatching up Geralt’s stupidly big shirts and wearing them to bed himself. He didn’t used to think himself a small man, but after slipping on one of Geralt’s shirts and seeing the hem cover his arse like a dress, he’s never been sure.

But it’s cozy and warm, even if it is a little overdue for a washing. And when Geralt sees him lying on the bed all bundled up in it, a faint smile tugs at his lips, so Jaskier thinks he can deal with a little bit of witcher stink. Just this once.

What he _can’t_ deal with, though, is Geralt sitting on the edge of the bed to dry off his hair for the better part of ten minutes. He’s just far away enough that Jaskier can’t curl around him — and while he’s usually never one to complain about seeing his dear witcher shirtless, he thinks he’s been patient enough.

“Come on, Geralt, I’ve waited long enough,” he says, lips settling into a pout. “come put your stupidly big arms around me and hold me, won’t you?”

Geralt looks back at him with a hard amber gaze. But either Jaskier has a better pout than he gives himself credit for, or Geralt’s hair is finally dry, because he tosses the towel to the floor and slides into bed.

They settle into a familiar pattern. Geralt lies on his back, neck propped up by a pillow and his head against the bed’s headboard. He lifts up an arm just as Jaskier nestles himself up against the witcher’s side, letting the side of his head rest against his bare chest. One of his arms is looped behind Geralt’s neck, and the other comes beside his head to rest idly on his chest. Geralt’s arm, on the other hand, drapes itself loosely across Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him just a bit closer. Their legs are tangled together beneath the sheets — which are a bit itchy, Jaskier has to admit, but he’s so content like this that he doesn’t have it in him to complain.

Jaskier lets out a long, contended exhale as his eyes flutter shut, his thumb idly rubbing circles against Geralt’s collarbone.

“I love you, Geralt,” he murmurs. “you do know that, don’t you?”

Geralt’s _hmm_ rumbles low against Jaskier’s ear. 

“With how much you say it, I’d certainly hope so.”

Jaskier cracks an eye open and peers up at him. “But you know that I mean it, right? Yes, I’ll go on waxing poetic nonsense ‘till the end of my days, but when it comes to you — _loving_ you — well, it’s not in me to tell a lie. I couldn’t.”

Again, Jaskier is met with, “Hmm.”

Jaskier moves his hand to rest underneath his chin so that he can look up at Geralt a little easier. 

“And you love me, too. Don’t you?”

Geralt’s brows knit together, and his lips press into a thin line. It’s a look Jaskier is all too familiar with — the _‘I don’t really want to talk about this right now, or maybe ever’_ look.

“Jaskier,” he starts, but Jaskier just sighs.

“Oh, don’t start,” he says. “it’s all right. I know you do, even if your stupidly strange witcher brain won’t let you tell me. Just as it’s not in me to shut my mouth, it’s not in you to open yours. And I won’t force you.”

Geralt isn’t looking at him, but Jaskier knows he’s listening — his thumb is gliding back and forth against Jaskier’s shoulder where the neckline of his shirt has fallen down. 

“All the beds you’ve fallen into over the years,” he says. His voice is quiet, uncharacteristically careful. “and you stay in the one with the man who won’t even say he loves you.”

Jaskier frowns. It’s not quite self-deprecating, the way Geralt says it — rather, almost an observation, with the question of _why_ being left unsaid.

“Yes, because he doesn’t need to say it for me to know.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, which is par for the course — but he doesn’t even _hmm,_ which means without a doubt that he doesn’t believe him. Jaskier huffs.

“Love isn’t just shown in words, Geralt,” he says. “I’ve left my heart wide open over the years, and If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we all show our love in different ways. Me? Oh, I’m simple. I’m quite content to kiss you once or thrice and tell it to you outright.”

“ _Simple,_ ” Geralt repeats. Jaskier pinches the side of his arm.

“Point is, Geralt, that’s not how _you_ show your love,” he insists. “you’d rather bite your tongue clean in half before you told me in public that you loved me, and that’s okay. I know you do. I can see it.”

Geralt meets his gaze, finally. His face is set in stone, but his eyes are wavering, ever so slightly.

“How?” he asks, and Jaskier can’t help but smile.

“In everything you do, darling,” he whispers. “maybe you don’t even know you’re doing it, but I can see it clear as day.

“I see it when you help me up onto Roach’s saddle with your hand firmly to my hip, even though we’ve been riding together for near to a decade now. How you bring me close to your side whenever we’re in a nastier tavern, even though I’ve handled much worse drunkards all by my lonesome. Every half-smile, every breathy laugh, every touch, every _kiss_ — I see it all, Geralt. And I know what it means.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow, and he stays frustratingly silent. Jaskier sighs.

“Yes, and I can see that, too,” he says. “you want to tell me I’ve let my years of ballad-writing get to my head. And while that may be true, because I write a mean ballad, it’s not so this time, my love. I’ve got you wrapped around my nimble, lute-plucking fingers, and I don’t intend to let go.”

Geralt does finally speak, but it is only to ask a question that Jaskier wasn’t expecting of him.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” he starts. “to lay with a man who would say he loved you? Who would love you openly, and without fear?”

Jaskier’s lips pull into a deep frown. “You don’t fear loving me.”

And Jaskier says this, but he looks at Geralt now, with his chin set and his lips pressed in a firm line, and it occurs to him suddenly that maybe he _does_ fear it. Jaskier’s spent years at the witcher’s side, but he’s not sure what — or who — came before him. Yes, Geralt is no stranger to falling in and out of beds, but… this? Being cared for, adored, _loved?_ Jaskier isn’t sure he’s ever had that.

It’s a cold, harsh realization that tugs fiercely at the strings of Jaskier’s heart. He lifts his head from Geralt’s chest as his eyes go soft, his voice dropping down low.

“Oh, Geralt…”

Geralt scowls. “Stop that. I wasn’t looking for pity; just answers.”

“Oh, I know, I know!” quickly insists Jaskier. “I don’t pity you; oh, I could never. I’m just… amazed by you. How every little thing you do makes me fall in love with you all over again.”

Carefully, Jaskier leans forward until their brows are pressed together. The need to kiss his witcher is terribly overwhelming, but the need to praise him outweighs it by a million.

“I know you don’t put any stock into that _destiny_ hogwash,” he whispers. “but something brought us together. Something that even I’m not poetic enough to comprehend, but something I’ll be thankful for ‘till the end of my days. Whatever that something is, it gave me the chance to love you — and loving you has been the greatest adventure of my life.”

Finally, Geralt’s amber gaze softens — so it’s no surprise that he closes his eyes not a moment later.

‘Jaskier…” he murmurs. There’s a strange quality to the way he says his name; there’s no request to be found, and yet it sounds almost like a plea.

Jaskier swears his heart is going to jump out of his chest. He can’t quite help himself from pressing a brief kiss to the side of his mouth.

“And I know it’s not easy, Geralt,” he says. “you tore your heart off your sleeve long ago, and you didn’t believe anyone would come and find it. I know…” his voice trails off, and he heaves a heavy sigh. “I know you don’t believe me, sometimes. When I tell you I love you. Words don’t mean as much to you as they do to me.”

Jaskier pauses, briefly, and Geralt’s eyes open back up. Blue and yellow meet once more, and despite it all, Jaskier’s lips pull into a smile, bright and hopeful and _loving._

“So I suppose I’ll just have to kiss you silly, ‘till I’m blue in the face — no, ‘till the end of all time!” he laughs. “As long as it takes, Geralt. I won’t stop until you really see how much I love you.”

And Geralt, the White Wolf of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the almighty witcher — he smiles right back. It’s soft, hardly a quirk of the lips, but it’s _there,_ and Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

“The end of all time,” he muses. “that’s going to take a while.”

Jaskier beams at him, a laugh bubbling up in his throat.

“Well, I guess we’d better start now.”

And they do. Jaskier doesn’t quite kiss the witcher silly, but he does kiss him and kiss him until the heavy weight of sleep weighs harshly on his eyelids. 

“I suppose we’d better get some sleep,” he says then. “who knows what sorts of things the world will throw at us in the morning?”

And Geralt replies, “Hmm.”

So Jaskier lets his head lay back upon the witcher’s chest, just above where his heart thrums, a slow but steady pulse that has rocked the bard to sleep more times than he can count. He’s just about to let slumber take hold of him when Geralt shifts, his hand moving from Jaskier’s shoulder up to his face.

Jaskier feels Geralt’s feather-light touch brush a lock of hair away from his face, his knuckles coming to rest gently upon Jaskier’s cheek. After a pause, he feels Geralt lean closer as he presses a slow, chaste kiss to his forehead. His lips linger against the bard’s skin for a moment, before a low murmur echoes in the night air:

“I love you.”

Geralt’s voice is naught but a warm breath against the top of Jaskier’s head, but it is more than enough. Jaskier doesn’t move, lest he let the illusion of sleep fall from its already shaky balance, but he cannot stop his lips from quirking into a fond smile.

Geralt will not fall asleep for a while yet, surely. Even so, he says nothing else, merely letting the silence wrap around the both of them like a comforting embrace.

Because truly, lying here like this, with the thumping of Geralt’s heart lulling Jaskier to sleep? There is nothing more that needs to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> i do love seeing content with geralt being openly affectionate, but i wanted to explore an approach i felt was a little more realistic to what i know about geralt's character. it's a different love language, y'know? while jaskier revels in words of affirmation, they don't mean as much to geralt, so it's harder for him to show that he loves jaskier in any way other than silently. but jask knows. we all know <3  
> my approach to jaskier was also probably a little more tender and genuine than we see him in the series, but... i'm not going to apologize for that one. a woman can have a little romantic jaskier. as a treat.  
> i hope it was enjoyable nonetheless! i hope to write more of these two dumbasses in the future, because their characters and their dynamics really have my heart in a vice grip. if you have any suggestions, comments, critiques, please leave them - i'd love to hear what you have to say!  
> until next time! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ


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